Korval's Game (7 page)

Again the heavy nod, the exchange of names; the pass on to Val Con.

“Your cousin Ilvin, daughter of your cousin Jen Sar Tiazan, who is from clan at present.”

“Your cousin Kol Vus . . .”

“Your cousin . . .”

Miri lost count, very likely lost names, after the first dozen or so. Her head was beginning to ache with all the cool, polite faces and she started to want a slug of kynak. She gritted her teeth and bowed kinship to tel’Vosti, damn him: “Your uncle, Win Den tel’Vosti, son of Randa Tiazan and Pel Jim tel’Vosti.”

There was another blur of names and faces after him; the next she took clear note of was the last.

“Your cousin Alys, daughter of your cousin Makina Tiazan, who is from clan at this moment.”

Alys, who would be “very well,” but never a Kea Tiazan. Alys, who they were going to offer as a contract-wife to Val Con, when she came of age.

She made her bow, very serious, and stood tall, all three and a half feet of her, curly, orange-y hair held down by the brute strength of three formidable-looking combs. The brown eyes shone with something past curiosity or even friendliness and Miri caught her breath. She’d seen that look on recruits, sometimes, the ones who fancied themselves “in love” with the commander.

“Cousin Miri,” she piped up, “I’m happy to see you.”

Oh, hell. Like she didn’t have enough trouble without an elf hooking onto her. Miri returned the bow with matching dignity.

“Cousin Alys, I am happy to see you.” She made the backhand wave toward Val Con and repeated the weary formula for the last time, moving the kid along. She wanted that drink bad, she thought, and looked up to find Emrith Tiazan watching her, something like approval in the lines of her face.

“Appropriately done,” the old lady said. “We now go in to dinner. Win Den, attend me, by your grace.”

tel’Vosti stepped forward and offered his arm, which she took, allowing him to lead her down the room toward the door at the opposite end. The mob of redheads made room for them to pass, but nobody followed.

“Us now, cha’trez.” Val Con’s voice was soft in her ear as he took her arm. “You did admirably.”

“Easy for you to say,” she muttered. “I’d rather sing for my supper, though. Any day.”

***

“I need a drink.”

Miri leaned against the wall just inside their private parlor, eyes closed against the scented darkness. Dinner had been horrible. Her place had been set with an arsenal of forks and tongs and spoons and knives, all of which, sleep-learning told her implacably, had a specific use. She’d fair busted her head while she’d waited for the first course, trying to remember the long list of foods that could and should be addressed with each implement.

Then the first course was served and she’d broken out in an ice-cold sweat as dish after unidentifiable dish went by. She’d snuck a look to see what Val Con was having; took a little of that and nibbled while she tried to do her conversational duty to the woman on her left. She’d left the wine strictly alone, terrified at getting even a little fuddled with all those new cousins watching and keeping score.

“A drink,” she said firmly. “A
big
drink.”

“Certainly,” Val Con murmured in her ear. He slipped a hand beneath her elbow. “Come sit on the couch, cha’trez . . . There. Red wine? White? Jade? Canary? I believe—yes, there is misravot, if you would prefer . . .”

Miri sighed, leaned back in the cushions and finally opened her eyes. Val Con had lit the low-lights—the ceiling sparkled with starring pinpoints; the carpet glittered like new snow.

“What do I know about wine? You pick.”

“All right,” he said, and poured pale green wine into two crystal cups. He brought them to the couch and handed her one, raising his own in salute.

“To Lady yos’Phelium, my love.”

She laughed and shook her head. “Why not to Lord yos’Phelium?”

“Lord yos’Phelium was not courageous, nor did he comport himself with anything but mediocrity.” He touched her cheek. “Miri, you are a treasure.”

“If you say so,” she said dubiously and sipped her wine. “I think it’s pretty brave, myself, to trust everything to somebody who don’t even know what fork to use—” She shook her head. “Who knows what fork to use,” she corrected herself, “if there’d been a clue to what the food was!”

“Ah, I had wondered why you ate so little . . .” He tipped his head. “You must not let it burden you,” he said softly. “You imagine my melant’i is so fragile it will shatter at your slightest error. Instead, it has—resilience—and certainly strength enough to withstand my lifemate’s mistaking a fork—or even using a fork instead of tongs!” He tasted his wine, suddenly serious.

“In all matters of importance—in your conduct toward your delm and the head of your line; in your answer to tel’Vosti—you were above reproach. If in less vital matters you err, or simply choose to disregard the Code, then it is—a nothing. People will say, if they say at all: ‘Ah, she is an original.’ Which is no bad thing.”

“An original?” She frowned and shook her head.

Val Con sighed. “It is one of the reasons I insisted you learn the Code from the source, rather than from my tutoring,” he said slowly. “Each individual takes the Code and—shapes it—according to his own character and necessity. Now, I have, perhaps, taken too much from my uncle’s tutelage—or learned too young, as Shan would have it—so my manner tends toward coolness and extreme precision.” He sipped wine, brows drawn.

“Shan is an original,” he murmured: “his manners are appalling, but his
manner
pleases. Anthora follows his style. Pat Rin is very correct, but easy, so the correctness seems joined to and flowing from his melant’i. Nova—” he shook his head, smiling with a touch of wistfulness. “I once overhead someone say he would rather meet an angry lyr-cat unarmed, than Nova and I in a reception line.”

Miri laughed.

Val Con leaned over and kissed her.

“Mmmm,” she said and shivered delightedly as warm, knowing fingers stroked down the line of her throat.

“You find me too Liaden, Miri?” Val Con’s voice was husky in her ear, his cheek soft against hers.

She breathed in the scent of him and let the breath go in a half-gasping laugh as desire broke over her. “The clothes threw me,” she murmured. “Why don’t you take ’em off?”

He laughed gently, took her wineglass and bent to put it aside, his weight pushing her into the cushions. Then his lips were back, demanding full attention, while his hands stroked and teased and finally found the fastenings of the dress and loosed them.

She tried to return the favor, reaching to open the fine white shirt, but he eluded her hands, keeping her pinned and all but helpless while he slipped the dress down over her shoulders and a bit further, nuzzling her throat, kissing her breasts, her belly . . .

The dress was gone. She reached again to help him out of the shirt, aching to feel his skin against hers—and was fended off with a breathless laugh: “Ah, not so greedy, cha’trez . . .”

Mouth and hands engaged her full attention once more, the soft fabrics of trousers and shirt stroking against her nakedness alternately frustrating and exhilarating.

At some point, he picked her up and lay her down again on that high, wide bed, and was gone for a moment, returning with his hand full of bed-flowers.

He covered her in them, laughing; crushed one in long fingers and stroked the fragrance across her breasts. She shivered and laughed and twisted, pulling him down and mock wrestling, desperate to have him, with an urgency the flower-scent fed.

He laughed, fingers and lips teasing; but allowed the shirt—and at once allowed everything, abandoning the role of command as she bit and kissed and stroked and the flowers were crushed beneath them and gave up their seductive odor.

She lay across his chest, teasing, nearly lazy against the flower’s urgency. Val Con’s eyes were half-closed, his face blurred with desire, hands stroking, beginning to insist. But he wasn’t in control now, she was. She rubbed against him, felt his hips move and laughed as she kissed his ear.

“So greedy, Val Con . . .”

A laugh—or a soft groan. “Miri . . .”

She closed her eyes, concentrating on the feel of him, on the warmth, on how well their bodies fit, on the desire barely restrained, soon to be loosed.

She looked at the pattern of him inside her head.

And—
reached out
, very softly, to stroke it and breathe on it and—kiss it—and love it and desire it and—

Beneath her, Val Con went utterly still. Miri opened her eyes.

“Cha’trez . . .” He touched her face, his eyes wide and shocked-looking, as if he’d been suddenly wakened. “Miri, what are you doing?”

She looked at him through slitted eyes, still more than half cuddling the pattern of him—the
him
of him—against her, feeling the love flow from her; feeling it return, enriched and expanded.

“Loving you,” she managed. Then, as the distress in his eyes began to resonate in his pattern. “Should I stop?”

“No.” His hands closed hard around her waist and he rolled, spilling her over into the crushed flowers and him hard and urgent atop her. “Never stop.”

It was bodies, then, and lust and the flowers and finally two voices crying out as one in joy and wonder.

They were still tangled around each other when the timer shut the room lights down. Both were fast asleep.

DUTIFUL PASSAGE:
In Orbit

“Once more,”
First Mate Priscilla Mendoza called, “sequence twelve . . .
now
!”

Inside the lifeboat the pilot hit the sequence. Outside, the laser turrets swiveled, left, right, up, down, extended and finally withdrew into their shielding.

“Great!” she said. “Shut her down, Seth; we’re meshed.”

The little ship obediently powered down and the pilot slipped out of the slot, slamming the hatch.

“Last one,” he said. “Time to take on the Yxtrang.”

Priscilla blinked up at him—long, rat-faced, laconic Seth, matter-of-factly installing laser cannons on lifeboats. “Is that what you think we’re going to do?” she asked. “Go to war with the Yxtrang?”

Seth shrugged, bending over to gather up his toolkit. “Can’t think of anybody else’ll fire on escape pods,” he said calmly. “Terrans won’t. Liadens won’t—pay all that weirgild?” He grinned, a surprise of white teeth in his narrow face. “Never met a Liaden crazy enough to bankrupt himself on a sure thing.”

Priscilla smiled back and slung her tool bag over her shoulder. “So it’s the Yxtrang, by process of elimination?”

“Seems reasonable,” Seth said, ambling at her side down the service hall to Bay Four. “Either that, or Shan wants an ace up his sleeve.” He shrugged. “Never known Shan to make a bad play, where the ship was concerned. I’ll follow him on this one.”

Priscilla stopped and looked directly into his eyes—mud brown and smallish—Healer sense tuned to read every nuance of his emotive pattern.

“Seth, it’s not Yxtrang. But it could still be very dangerous. People who well
might
fire on an escape pod, and Balance be damned. We don’t know that they will, but we aren’t at all convinced that they won’t.” She paused and packed the next words heavily, timing them to his inner resonance. “Be certain, Seth. There’s still time for you to ship down—no blame.”

He stared back into her eyes, more than half-tranced.

“Shan found me in a backworld dive,” he said, so softly she strained to hear. “I was scraping out a living running in-system ore boats and garbage scows. Drinking too much, doing too much smoke. Lost my family in an Yxtrang raid—wife, kids, parents. Went off my head, I guess. Came to, eventually—no money, no job, and no friends. Shan needed pilots—‘Always need a good pilot,’ he said—gods, I can still see him coming into that dive—skinny, shoulders not filled yet, cutting deals like a pro—sixteen, maybe seventeen Standards—with that white hair and a kid’s face and those eyes. Never seen eyes like that . . .” He blinked; shook his head and Priscilla let him break the trance.

He sighed. “Shan got me out of there—out of
all
of there. Gave me a chance. ‘My man,’ is what he told the port guard. ‘That’s my man, sir; and he’s wanted at his post.’” He nodded sharply and turned away, heading doggedly down the hall.

“If it’s Yxtrang or if it’s something worse,” he said as Priscilla fell in beside him, “I reckon I can man my post.”

***

Shan looked up
as she entered his office, smiled wanly and returned to the screen. Priscilla crossed to the bar and poured two glasses of wine—red, for him; white, for her—and carried them back to the desk. She slid into the chair opposite and waited, holding the glass and running through a low-level exercise to restore tranquility.

“Thank you, Priscilla.” He picked up his own glass, waved it in ironic salute and took a healthy drink.

“You’re welcome,” she murmured, reading the worry and the exhaustion and the sparking nervous energy overlaying his emotive grid. “The First Mate reports all lifeships armed. Field tests remain to be done, but everything reads fine on the circuits.” She sipped wine. “Seth Johnson chooses to remain with his Captain.”

Shan sighed. “Seth Johnson is a sentimental fool,” he said, and nodded at the screen. “We have a match.”

“So soon?”

“Amazing, isn’t it? With so many gene-maps in the galaxy?” He grinned tiredly. “I played a hunch—that notation on Sergeant Robertson’s birth certificate—
mutated within acceptable limits—
you recall?”

She nodded. “You thought that might mean ‘partly Liaden.’”

“And my thought has proved correct—I tell you, Priscilla, I’m not a master of trade for nothing! Though you would consider that a scout might more fully communicate—but I digress. How unusual.” He took another swallow of wine and waved at the screen. “Miri Robertson’s gene-map matches that of Line Tiazan.” He eyed her expectantly.

She sipped her wine, knowing that her temple training had taught her more than enough patience to wait out one of Shan’s rare silences.

“You disappoint me. Don’t you have the least wish to know who the devil Tiazan is and where we’ll be meeting my wretched brother?”